


Interesting Combination

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Facebook Prompts [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Scents & Smells, Soap is a Thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-03 17:41:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12151608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: "Interesting."The Olfactor will tell 15-year-old John nothing more about the unique combination of scents that make up his personal soap recipe. His soulmate will be able to detect the individual components of his scent; that's how soulmates find each other. John's not too sure about the whole soulmate thing, and besides, he's not that interesting. How interesting could his soulmate be?





	1. John's Story

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another from the prompt 'Soap for Introverts - Unscented, because seriously, you're not going out anyway' (images [here](https://www.google.com.au/search?q=soap+for+introverts&rlz=1C1VFKB_enAU647AU647&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjsj_LzjbbWAhVIUbwKHVWvD2MQsAQILQ&biw=1366&bih=662#imgrc=_)). Honestly, it feels like a whole new branch of AUs just exploded in my head. EDIT: THIS STORY NOW COMPLETE.  
> Oh, and if you feel a Potterverse vibe, the Olfactor is based rather on Harry's first visit to Ollivander's. <3

John twisted his fingers together. He was nervous, and Harry’s smug looks did not help. Just because she’d gone through puberty early and he was on the later side. For twins, they were as different as it was possible to be, and this was just another example. He had been relieved to find the shadow of downy growth on his face (and other places), and it had taken all his willpower to wait the nine days before his mother had noticed it too.

“Well I suppose we’ll have to go down to the Olfactor,” she had sighed dramatically. The deflation of his excitement was actually what he expected; his mother was rarely interested in anything that happened to either of her children, especially when it was something that would cost her bingo money. John had been sure to cover his anticipation, not wanting to aggravate the black mood that had descended on her after their brief conversation.

Now, standing in front of the shop, John’s fingers were beginning to ache from the stress he was placing on the joints.

Harry bumped his shoulder with hers, a rare mark of solidarity. “Gone on, then,” she said. Their mother had dropped them off before her midday bingo session, not bothering to stay for this rite of passage of her only son.

John nodded at Harry, still looking up at the faded sign above the door. The gold script was no longer catching the light, though the words were still legible; “Robert Bobbin, Olfactor. Est.382 BC”. The grubby windows, to which John had pressed his nose countless times trying to see inside, were opaque, maintaining the mystery of the ancient shop.

John stepped forward, finally about to find out for himself exactly what happened when you visited the Olfactor. The bell jangled as he entered, eyes adjusting to the darkened interior. As the room slowly became visible, John stared at the shelves covering every wall from floor to ceiling. Every shelf was crammed with small boxes, each with a label bearing cramped handwriting. He approached the nearest shelf, stretching his hand out to touch a box…

“Ah, Master Watson, I was wondering when I would see you.” The voice was paper thin and yet amused. John turned to look at the woman who approached him. Her hair was soft white, curling out from her head in all directions, framing a round face. He was taller than she, even at 15 and she smiled up at him with sparking green eyes.

“Good morning,” he greeted her. Was this a descendant of Robert Bobbin? John was a little disappointed not to be meeting the man behind the name he had read every day of his life as he passed the shopfront. “I’m here for…” he stopped as she started chuckling.

“Everyone always tells me why they’re here,” she muttered to herself, still chucking and still looking intently at John. She patted his hand as she added, “You only visit once, my dear, like everyone else, and you’re here for one reason.”

John nodded, feeling foolish. Of course he was here for one thing; for the one thing a skilled Olfactor could do that nobody else could do. They could concoct a Soap for you, the exact Soap that, when combined with your personal body chemistry, would attract your soulmate. Science had tried (and tried, and tried) to quantify exactly what they did and how they did it, but it remained a mystery. All John knew was that you visited an Olfactor when you hit puberty; they came up with a recipe for you and gave you a piece of paper that you had to memorise and then burn.

“Would you like a sweet, dear?” John blinked his way back to the present. The old lady was offering him a jellybean, and he took it automatically. Her direct gaze made him open the sweet immediately and stick it in his mouth; it was raspberry.

Before he could object, her wizened hand had shot out and grabbed his jaw, forcing the sweet out of his mouth. With a grunt of satisfaction, she took the sticky, saliva covered mess and stuck it in her own mouth, brow furrowing in concentration.

“Hey! Um, I mean…” John said, flustered.  

The woman did not seem to hear him, lost as she was in her own head. She nodded slowly, a smile blooming over her face as she tasted the previously chewed-on sweet.

John watched, having no idea if this was part of whatever it was she was doing to figure out what Soap to give him, or just some weird old lady thing.

“Right, you’re an unusual one,” she told him, and from the cackle that accompanied her slow turn, he imagined that met with some level of approval.

There was no way John was going to ask what she was doing -  he hated appearing unsure of himself – so he just watched as her eyes roved over the shelves, muttering to herself. With surprising dexterity, she slide the ladder along and started up it, reaching for boxes and reading the labels, shaking her head at each one. Twice she returned to him, making him chew on another sweet before spitting it into her hand for her consumption. No wonder Harry hadn’t told him about this – he never would have believed her.

Finally she took a box from a shelf and brought it over to him. “Go and wash your hands with this,” she told him, indicating a sink he hadn’t noticed earlier.

Pushing down the thrill of excitement, John accepted the Soap without comment and made his way over to the sink. He opened the cardboard box and took out the cake of Soap, washing his hands and wondering if this was it, the Soap that would help him find his soulmate. John was undecided on the concept of soulmates. He was more curious than anything, and figured that if a certain kind of soup might help him be happy later on, why not come to the Olfactor? He had to wash with something, after all.

“NOPE!” the screech came from right beside John, making him jump and drop the Soap into the sink. The woman snatched it up before he could react and thrust it back in the box. She muttered to herself as she walked back up the ladder again, examining the labels as she went.

John rinsed his hands, figuring he might as well stay here for the next sample. Sure enough she returned, thrusting another box into his hands. He washed again, jumping less violently this time when she screeched at him and snatched the Soap back. This went on and on until John’s hands were red raw; for some reason she had started cackling again, evidently having the time of her life. The shine had well and truly gone off the rose for John, who couldn’t tell one Soap from another; he just wanted this to be over so he could go home. The idea had even crossed his mind of not bothering with all this, just leaving and ignoring all the soulmate rubbish. When she returned again, bearing yet another box, John hesitated, wondering if he should, in fact leave.

“This is the one, I know it, I know it!” she cackled at him.

Reassuring as that might sound in theory, John had heard it a dozen times already and he repressed the snort of disbelief. Sighing, he took the box, his fingers now familiar with the process of removing the Soap. It felt the same as all the others, and the smell was as generic to him as any of the others.

The difference, this time, was that he screech for which John had braced did not come. Instead she leaned over his hands as they lathered, breathing deeply and murmuring, “Yes, yes, that’s it. Interesting!”

“I’m sorry,” John couldn’t help asking, “but what’s interesting?”

She waved at him in a way that seemed to indicate he could stop washing; as he rinsed John listened to her reply. “I have never had such a combination. Very interesting.”

John dried his hands on the threadbare towel then walked the five steps over to her tiny scroll top desk, tucked into a small alcove in the dimmest part of the shop. How she could see to write, he had no idea; but scribble she did on a small piece of paper.

With swift movements she folded it, holding it out towards John. Before he was allowed to take it, she said seriously, “This is your List, and your Number. Memorise it and destroy it.”

John blinked. He had absolutely no idea what she meant, but he nodded anyway and took the paper.

“Thank you,” he said, his heat pounding. He couldn’t possibly read it here – the light was too dim – and nothing in the world seemed as important as reading his List as soon as possible. And what was the Number for? Carefully, he placed on her desk the money his mother had begrudged him. John shot her a quick smile then left, the jangle of the bell bookending his experience in the Olfactor’s presence. He blinked in the bright light, tucking his precious paper into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“God, you took your time!” Harry’s voice came from his right. She was sitting on the bench, drinking a coffee and squinting into the sun. “So?” she asked as they began walking home. It was an unspoken understanding that their mother would not emerge from bingo until her funds were exhausted.

“Weird.”

Harry rolled her hand over, asking for more information.

“Did she do the jellybean thing?” John asked. He hoped this would be one of their rare serious conversations; Harry could be a wonderful big sister when the mood struck her, and he had nobody else to ask about this.

“Yeah, it was disgusting,” Harry replied, wrinkling her nose with the memory.

“I had to try so many Soaps,” John complained, showing Harry his hands, which were wrinkly and red from the washing.

“Really? I only had to do about three,” Harry said. John wondered why some people were easier to match. Did it have something to do with the ‘interesting’ combination he had ended up with? The unread paper was burning a hole in his pocket, he thought.

“She gave me this piece of paper…” John started, but Harry cut him off.

“Don’t tell me!”

“I haven’t read it yet.” John replied. “She said it was the List? What does that even mean?”

Harry looked sideways at him, then heaved a sigh. This meant that she was going to tell him, but she wanted him to know what a burden it was. He waited, knowing she would speak. “It’s the List of what you’ll smell like to your soulmate. If they can tell you the things on the List just by smelling you, that’s their proof.” She shrugged as if it was that simple.

John frowned. “And that’s why I can’t tell anyone.”

“Yep,” Harry confirmed. “Oh, and there’s like, rules about it. If you think someone’s your soulmate, you’ll be able to smell them, right? Like, really clearly. So if you think they are your soulmate, you should write down what you can smell and give it to them. If you’re right, they’ll reply by writing down what they can smell, and it should be the things on your List.”

“But what if you’re wrong?” John asked. He wanted to add, ‘what if they didn’t want to be your soulmate?’, but he didn’t have the guts.

“They won’t reply, they won’t mention it. It’s really rude to talk about it, even when you give them the note. That’s what Clara’s mum said.”

John knew that most people heard this stuff from their parents; it was like the birds and the bees talk. He was just glad Clara’s mum had told Harry, or he’d have nobody to tell him this stuff. A wave of sadness and anger washed over him, and he let it, indulging the self-pity for a moment before pushing it away.

“Oh, there’ll be a Number on the paper too, you have to remember that. It’s your code, so you can go to the pharmacy and order more of your Soap when you run out.”

John though this was a good idea. He could get Soap from anywhere then, even when he moved away from here to start his life, his proper life.

“Thanks, Harry,” he said quietly. She didn’t reply, but then he didn’t expect her to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Soap lovers! Hello too if you're in the 'wow Soap is weird but this is kinda cool' camp - join us, we have custard creams and hot tea!  
> I’ve added a title to chapter 1 (John’s Story) because in this AU, there are several stories that intertwine. Hence, the perspective is first John’s, and then Greg’s, with elements of other relationships woven through both. John and Greg’s stories occur somewhat concurrently, but it’s clearer to read them as discrete stories that happen to cover a little of the same ground. There’ll be a chapter title to let you know when we change perspectives. As always, thank you for reading and commenting. <3
> 
> Oh, and I’ve accepted [this](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/520799144400091580/) headcanon, so consider Alex Kingston to be cast as Harry.

John’s proper life had not turned out quite as he’d thought it might. He’d finished high school, excelling as he’d expected, but his dream of studying medicine relied on a full scholarship to college. Despite his excellent results, the only offer of a fully funded medical degree came from the British Army, who offered to pay his way in return for 8 years of his life in service. Harry had been angry and his mother upset at his decision, but John was adamant – he was going to be a doctor, and if the Army could make that happen, then the Army it would be.

To his surprise, he’d enjoyed the regimented existence of his Army life, and the enforced comradeship had been exactly what his naturally-reticent self had needed to build friendships. The down side of Afghanistan – and there weren’t as many as people would have expected – was the lack of amenities. He literally dreamed of real tea and a packet of Hobnobs, something he’d taken for granted when living in England.

Each of the people with whom he served had their own dreams, from girlfriends to food to watching the football. There were endless hours spent debating the best way to make a cup of tea, or where the best kebabs in London could be found. The one thing they all agreed on, though, was the dire need for a proper pharmacy. As a doctor, John knew how desperately short they sometimes ran of basic resources like analgesics and antibiotics, and outwardly he reminded them of this when the complaining threatened to get out of hand. Privately, though, he agreed. Considered a luxury, personalised Soaps were too expensive to ship to serving personnel, so they mostly went without. The lucky few had friends or family that would arrange to have some made and sent over, but given the high likelihood of parcels being intercepted, few bothered.

In the beginning John had envied those men and women, hating the generic Army issued Soap with a passion. Eventually though, he realised that he spent his days with the same people all the time, and if they hadn’t identified the scent he wore when he arrived, before his last precious cake of Soap was used up, they weren’t his soulmate anyway. This brought him comfort sometimes when he lay awake at night, the pain from his newly healing shoulder wound keeping him from sleep. He wondered about his soulmate – where were they? What were they doing?

He rolled the list through his head again, as he had done a thousand times since he had first breathlessly read the cramped handwriting of that funny old Olfactor.

**_John Hamish Watson – EVR-JHW090773_ **

_old blood_

_violin rosin_

_rare tobacco_

_cordite_

The list was as much a part of his base knowledge as his birthday or his name; he could recite it backwards and sideways, so often had he thought of it when he was young. What kind of person had a connection to those things? John thought to himself, the same questions running through his head as they always did, never with any new insights attached. How would his soulmate be able to distinguish old blood from new? And rare tobacco? Were they a smoker?

Man or woman, older or younger, naughty or nice…John could never decide what he thought might be the ‘perfect’ soulmate, another discussion that came up with irritating regularity. Surely the point was that this person was what you needed, rather than what you wanted?

Not that it even mattered. In the quiet of his own heart, John had given up the moment he’d been shot. Who’d want someone like him for a soulmate?

By the time John had returned to London, the idea of him finding a soulmate had withered and died inside him. For the first week, living in the grim accommodation provided by the Army before he found his own flat, John avoided pharmacies except to fill his prescriptions. Even then, he made sure to tell the pharmacy assistant that the Army provided his Soap, and would she please note that on his file? As he was in so often, topping up his sleeping pills and the anti-anxiety medication he never took, he didn’t want to be asked every time if he needed Soap. It was bad enough seeing it on television; the world seemed obsessed with it and he couldn’t avoid it.

The voice in the back of his head had been particularly loud that day, making suggestions about using that stash of pills, when John heard his name called. Mike Stamford had been a year ahead of him at Bart’s but they had been good mates, albeit many years ago now. The last thing John wanted to consider was a flatmate, but the alternative was his current flat, which was awful, or moving back with his mother, which was completely out of the question. The fact that Sherlock was abrupt and infuriating was actually interesting; the most interesting thing John had come across since he’d returned to London.

It was with relief that he first trailed up the stairs after Sherlock, no overwhelmingly clear scents marking Sherlock as his soulmate. At least that would not be a complication he’d have to navigate. As it was, things were odd enough, with the date-not-date at Angelo’s and being kidnapped by Mycroft. Not to mention that moment at the College. After he’d shot a man, for goodness sake, to save Sherlock’s life.

If John hadn’t known better, he would have thought Sherlock was flirting with him.

The careful words about powder burns, sussing out his mental stability, the suggestion of dinner; he’d held up the police tape for John in a careless display of chivalry. And that half smile when John had called him an idiot…but there was nothing special about the way he smelled, so John put the idea firmly out of his mind. No need to rock the boat.

+++

“JOHN!”

“For chrissake, Sherlock, you’ll wake Mrs. Hudson.”

“A case, John, a case!”

“Give me ten minutes and a cup of tea.”

“Three minutes and there’ll be coffee at the scene.”

John groaned, pressing his face into his pillow in a last minute show of defiance before rolling out of bed and scrambling to find his clothes. He couldn’t resist a summons from Sherlock, especially when he sounded so excited; he would be practically dancing at the bottom of the stairs John knew, desperately impatient to depart.

“Three minutes, John!”

“Okay, okay, I’m here…” They bolted down the stairs, a cab already waiting. John stifled a yawn, still waiting for his mind to catch up that they were awake now. Everyone thought that the years of Army life would make John wake quickly at any time of day or night, but the opposite was true. He firmly believed that he had done all the jumping out of bed that was budgeted for a normal life and now he was going to lie in when he could, thank you very much. No matter how many times he explained this to Sherlock, though, he was always summoned. And he always came.

“Another one of those jilted lovers?” Lestrade suggested, looking at John.

He shrugged, knowing Lestrade was fishing for information about Sherlock’s line of thinking. John had as much idea as the next man about what Sherlock was thinking regarding a case; he often wondered if he was just there as a kind of PA, smoothing relations between Sherlock and the detectives.

“This number four?” John asked quietly.

“Five,” Lestrade corrected, and John winced. “Super’s coming down hard on us to catch whoever’s behind this, but…” Lestrade shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“It’s a rough one, alright,” John consoled him. They watched Sherlock in silence as he sniffed and poked at various parts of the body and the scene. As he did so often lately, John became caught up in the poetry of Sherlock’s action. He could have been an actor, or a dancer, or…

“She’s definitely one of your jilted lovers,” Sherlock said absently. “She’s wearing synthetic scent, like the others.”

Lestrade sighed in resignation. “Thanks, Sherlock. Anything else?” Sherlock shook his head, and Lestrade took his leave of John, making his way over to talk to Anderson about testing her Soap against what she was wearing.

“They’re wearing synthetic scent, presumably to attract a specific mate,” Sherlock muttered to himself. John was the only one close enough to hear, now. “But how do they know what to wear? Where do they get it? And there must be reciprocity, how do they know what is on their intended mate’s list?” Sherlock looked frustrated, and John took this as his cue.

“Let’s go, Sherlock,” John started walking away. Sherlock would pace the scene for hours as he thought unless got them moving. When he didn’t follow, John added mildly, “Isn’t that mould experiment just about due for examination?”

Sherlock froze, then turned to John and said evenly, “We should go, John. I must examine my mould experiment immediately.”

John grinned a little to himself. He might be useless to the Army, but he’d figured out how to get Sherlock Holmes to do what he wanted, and surely that was something.

+++

John had not seen Harry in almost ten years when she finally came to visit at Baker Street. She’d sent her old phone via Mum when he’d returned, and he took it as a sign that he was not forgiven for not only joining the Army, but getting himself shot. He’d decided to wait six months and then call her, and to John’s surprise she had picked up almost immediately. Their conversation was stilted, but it often had been as kids and young adults; nevertheless he invited her to tea at Baker Street, ignoring the reluctance with which she accepted.

And so she’d arrived, passively aggressively late and without a gift; their mother would be mortified, John thought to himself. She’d instilled punctuality and good manners into both of them, he knew, and looking at Harry, he knew she knew it, too.

“Oh, Harry,” he sighed and pulled her into a hug. She was several inches taller, and her manic hair tickled his nose as it always had. He held her tight, and when her fingers clenched the back of his jacket, he did not let go. They held each other for a long time before he finally let go so they could ignore the wet cheeks of the other while surreptitiously wiping at their own.

“Tea?” he offered, and she nodded mutely. They chatted a little awkwardly about life in general and Mum in particular before Sherlock came bounding up the stairs, the second half of a conversation still being shouted down the stairs.

“It’s only one pair, Molly, I don’t know what the fuss is about.”

He nodded briefly to Harry and turned his attention back to the door, waiting for Molly to appear and continue their argument.

“It’s not one pair, it’s two separate eyes, and you’ve had your quota for this month. It will have to wait.”

John nodded a greeting to Molly, who had spoken with a firmness he hadn’t seen from her before. She glanced at Harry, and John hastened to introduce them.

As they stepped in to shake hands, John looked at Sherlock, raising one eyebrow to ask about the eyeball experiment. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, a sequence John recognised as meaning, ‘She’s right but I’m not all that happy about it.' A sympathetic grin from John, who suddenly realised it was awfully quiet on the other side of the room. Neither Harry nor Molly were looking at each other, faces quite red as they avoided each other’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, the answer is no,” Molly finally blurted before running out of their flat.

John blinked, then turned to Harry. “What was that about?” he asked her.

She shook her head, looking shocked and somehow vulnerable. John flicked a glance to Sherlock, and for the first time John could remember, he took the hint without comment, striding into his bedroom and slamming the door. Perhaps one non-verbal comment then, John amended in his head.

“Harry?” John asked carefully. Whatever it was, it had shaken Harry, and John was glad they had at least begun to patch things up before this had happened. It made it far more likely that Harry would confide in him. She’d sunk down to sit in his seat, so he took Sherlock’s, perching on the very edge and leaning forward to her.

“I think…” Harry started, then stopped. She looked like she was going to cry, John thought. That in itself was surprising. Harry was always the put together one, poised and unflappable.

“I think she is my soulmate,” Harry said quietly.

John sat back in Sherlock’s chair. “Wow,” he said, now understanding why she had seemed so shocked.

“I know, I…” Harry stopped, her voice thick. She swallowed hard, then went on with difficulty. “Clara and I knew we weren’t, but we didn’t care. Who needs it all, right?” she laughed bitterly. “Turns out Clara did. She met her soulmate three months after we married.” Harry shrugged. “The law says it’s grounds for immediate divorce, so that’s what she did. I was so angry, John, I gave away all her things, I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t want anything to remind me. Why should she get her soulmate and I get nothing?” her voice was plaintive.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” John said. He hadn’t heard about any of this, though he’d wondered when the phone had appeared, complete with engraving.

“Not your fault,” she said. “I kind of never thought…but Molly…she smells like…” Harry stopped and another laugh burbled up, this buoyed by a note of hysteria. “She smells like…it’s so ridiculous, John, and perfect, and exactly right but, but, ridiculous.” She took a deep steadying breath. “She smells like peppermint tea and eucalyptus and pastels.”

John nodded, a little unsure why those things were so important to Harry. A wave of guilt washed over him. He knew his sister so little, he couldn’t even say why her soulmate smelled of those things.

“Peppermint tea – wasn’t that what Gran used to make us?” John hazarded.

“Yes. Every Tuesday when she’d pick us up from school. Peppermint tea and scones,” Harry replied, her face lighting up at the memory. John vaguely recalled some awful grass-like drink, but Harry’s recollection was obviously much stronger and more meaningful.

“What about the others?” John asked, knowing how rude it usually was to ask about the meaning of your soulmate scents, even of your own soulmate. It was generally accepted that if someone wanted to share that information they would, and there were people John knew who had never found out why their soulmate identified the specific things they did. Harry was his sister though, and he was alight with curiosity.

“Eucalyptus – that’s the stuff that Mum used to rub on our chests when we had a cold,” Harry explained. Again, John had a fuzzy recollection of that, but certainly nothing noteworthy. “It wasn’t so much the eucalyptus, but Mum would sit with me until I fell asleep,” Harry admitted, face flushing. That made sense, then. It was about comfort. “And the pastels, that’s what I draw with,” she said simply. “It’s my escape.”

John could feel the surprise on his face. “You still draw?” he said. When Harry nodded a little shyly, he found himself saying sincerely, “I’d love to see some of your work.”

They sat in silence for a bit, each lost in their thoughts.

“So what are you going to do?” John asked eventually. “I mean, I could take a note if you wanted to get in touch.” Not everyone contacted their soulmate, or not right away, he knew. There was no legal or biological reason to maintain contact, though it was grounds for divorce if one party discovered their soulmate and wanted to leave the marriage. There must be many people who ignored the scent and went about their lives, never telling their soulmate that they existed. Would Harry even want to meet with Molly again? So many questions, John thought.

“I have no idea.” Harry said. She rubbed her hands nervously on her thighs. “Look, I need to think a bit. I’m going to go, okay?”

John nodded and they hugged before she left. John set a reminder in his phone to call her in a few days and see how she was doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I have no idea how the reciprocity of the British Army scholarship program works. It’s not a key point so I didn’t fuss on it too much. <3


	3. Chapter 3

I think I should talk to Molly. – Harry

_Okay. How can I help? JHW_

Actually I think you should talk to Molly. – Harry

_??? JHW_

Come on John. What if she doesn’t want to do the soulmate thing? – Harry

Please, John. – Harry

_I recall being told that you’re not supposed to talk about it. Send me your list and I’ll pass it along if you like. JHW_

_You owe me a favour the size of Oxfordshire. JHW_

Yes I do. Thank you. – Harry

 

John scowled at the conversation he’d just finished with his manipulative big sister.

How did he get sucked into this? Not only did Harry have a soulmate, they’d found each other, and somehow it was up to John to do the awkward conversation? Something about this was not in the natural order of things.

He picked up his mug and tried to take a mouthful of tea, only to find that it was empty. Hmm. Perhaps it was time for something stronger, anyway. The little voice in the back of his head was telling him it was a bad idea, but he ignored it, filling up the tea mug with Scotch instead. It was a ridiculously large serve, at least a triple, but John felt reckless, angry at the notion he should enjoy spirits 30mL at a time. Who was the world to tell him how to drink?

Defiantly, he slugged back half the Scotch, gasping as it lit a fire down his throat. Okay, maybe he could go a little slower. He was glad Sherlock wasn’t here to see this. He could picture the mildly confused expression that appeared whenever Sherlock didn’t understand why John reacted to some social situation.

John’s frown deepened and he finished the Scotch, refilling his mug immediately.

“But why does it matter if Harry has a soulmate, John?” he would ask. And John would want to rage at him, but he knew Sherlock genuinely didn’t understand; he’d commented often enough that finding a soulmate would only distract him from his Work, and so it was certainly best if he never bothered with it all.

“Because it makes me sad, Sherlock,” John answered in his imaginary conversation with his real-but-imaginary friend.

“Why? The status of Harry’s soulmate search bears no impact on your own,” Sherlock would say in that infuriatingly logical way.

“Of course not, Sherlock. The fact that Harry is happy and fulfilled, or even has the chance at that, has no effect on my own sad and lonely existence,” John would reply, drinking from his mug again. He could feel himself becoming blurry around the edges and he was both annoyed at himself – what was the point of sitting in the dark and drinking alone? – and viciously self-mocking. Nice one, John. Great way to deal with your disappointment there. You don’t even bother with your Soap anymore, how would you know if you came across your soulmate? You might already have met them then lost the opportunity forever. You’re an idiot, and that goes twice because you’re sad about something you can change, you bloody idiot.

John drank again then abandoned his mug in favour of drinking straight from the bottle.

“Sad and lonely. What a loser,” John muttered to himself, clutching the bottle.

“You’re lonely, John?” Sherlock’s voice sounded in his mind again.

“Of course I am, Sherlock. Everyone in the world but me has a soulmate.” The hyperbole made him feel better, even though he knew it wasn’t true.

“I don’t,” Sherlock pointed out quietly. “Neither does Mycroft. That negates your argument, I believe.”

John snorted. “Harry has a soulmate. She has a soulmate and she hasn’t even got the balls to go and see her. I have to do it. Always me. Never me. Why never me?”

He felt tears well in his eyes and was glad the Sherlock watching from his chair was imaginary. John closed his eyes as the tears flowed down his face. It was comfortable like that, his eyelids heavy and the bottle cuddled into his side. He drifted off, sighing a little before the light snoring told the very real Sherlock that John was finally asleep.

Sherlock didn’t move for a long time, replaying the conversation he’d just had. Finding John sitting half drunk in the dark was unusual to say the least; the conversation that had ensued was baffling. John was lonely. A pang of hurt pierced Sherlock’s chest at this; was he not good company for John? Intuition told Sherlock that there was something missing here, something important about why this meant so much to John.

Sighing, Sherlock covered his lonely flatmate with a blanket before retiring to his own bed. He needed to think about this.

+++

Three days later, Sherlock noticed John looking particularly grim at breakfast; his clothing choice said ‘stopping at Bart’s before going to work’, so Sherlock deduced it was something to do with Molly and Harry and their bond as soulmates. John must be delivering the letter from Harry; he’d said that she was too scared to do it herself, and he wasn’t happy about his role in the whole drama.

Sherlock tried to be extra nice to John, which must have been confusing; John looked at him suspiciously when he made tea exactly the way John liked it. Perhaps they should have talked about that conversation, Sherlock reflected after John had left. Instead he’d decided to wait until John brought it up, and that didn’t look like happening. He wondered why John wouldn’t want to talk to him about it – wasn’t he John’s best friend? And yet John was lonely. Sherlock made a noise of frustration. This was not as easy as it seemed.

Throwing himself up from the chair, Sherlock decided to go to the lab. Surely there was something he could do to help with the jilted lovers. They knew the victims were wearing a synthetic scent; it was simple to detect as anyone could smell it, and strongly too.

The problem was not so much figuring out how the perfume was made (simple chemistry, boring), or why (the combinations were obviously to lure someone into thinking that the victim was their soulmate), but how they knew what combination to prepare. And, of course, the bigger picture why: what was there to benefit? Several of the victims had been wealthy or successful in their own right; they were hardly in it for the money. They’d all been killed in the same way, indicating that it was one person masterminding the whole operation. It was a good puzzle, a solid 8; usually it would consume Sherlock’s every waking moment until it was solved.

Now, though, this problem with John was on his mind, too. Sometimes it intruded on his mind palace; John would burst through the doors weeping and crying, “I’m so lonely, Sherlock!”

Sherlock pushed that image away, disturbing as it was, and checked his watch. Given the reluctance with which John was completing this task for his sister, Sherlock estimated eight minutes in total for John’s visit; in which case he would be gone and on the bus to work by now. Nodding to himself Sherlock navigated the corridors to the morgue with ease.

When he entered, Molly was standing at her desk reading a small piece of paper. Her face was flushed pink and she was smiling to herself.

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed when he cleared his throat. The paper was thrust into her handbag as she turned to him.

“You should put that somewhere safe, wouldn’t want to lose it,” Sherlock told her.

Her eyes grew wide at the idea of losing it and she nodded feverishly. The paper was retrieved and stowed carefully with the banknotes in her purse.

“Harry Watson is your soulmate,” Sherlock said bluntly, unsure how to begin this conversation.

Molly flushed even pinker, and she nodded. “I think she is.”

Sherlock considered this before asking with more tact than usual, “Do you think you will be less lonely if you and your soulmate are together?” He made sure his voice was slightly apologetic, quiet and a little tentative. John had pointed out on more than one occasion that a workaholic cat-loving single woman like Molly was probably lonely, and Sherlock should not bring it up as it would hurt her feelings. It was unavoidable now, though, so he had dredged up all the sensitivity he could muster.

“I think I will be a lot less lonely,” Molly replied quietly. She cocked her head as she looked at Sherlock. “Why do you ask, Sherlock?”

“John is lonely,” Sherlock said.

“Okay,” Molly said. She looked at him carefully. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied. He frowned as he tried to find the words to explain it. “I don’t want him to be. I’m his friend. And we live together, we see each other every day. He has other people in his life, too, so how can he be lonely?”

Molly sighed. “Oh, Sherlock. It’s a different kind of lonely. John doesn’t want someone to watch the football with, or someone to chase down criminals with, or someone to chat to over lunch at his desk. He wants someone special.” She was watching his expression, and she could tell he still didn’t understand. “John values stability, Sherlock. He wants someone that will think he’s special forever. Someone that he will be linked to forever, that will never leave him, and will think he’s great just as he is. That’s what a soulmate is.” Molly’s face had lit up a little as she described this, as though realising that this was what she had, now.

“But…but…” Sherlock stammered a little as he looked helplessly at Molly. _But that’s what I give him_ , he wanted to shout at her. _I’ll never leave him, I already think he’s great just as he is_. A dozen memories, scattered all over his mind palace, suddenly congregated in the entrance hall. Snippets of conversation, flickers of vision, facts about John; a skinny, frightened boy with a mop of dark curls reading a piece of paper before burning it to ashes.

As the realisation came over him, Sherlock blinked at Molly. “I have to go.” He bolted for the door before hesitating and turning back. “Congratulations, Molly. I hope you and Harry will be happy together.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Molly was surprised at such sentiment from him, but her words were lost in the swirl of his coat.


	4. Chapter 4

Before John came home, a package arrived at 221 Baker Street. As Mrs. Hudson dusted the flour from her hands to answer the door, Sherlock clattered down the stairs and accepted it. He was back up in his own flat and tearing at the paper in moments. Two separate boxes fell out, each marked with a name and a number.

Sherlock realised his hands were trembling as he took them into the bedroom, sliding one under the bed and taking the other into the bathroom. He had an hour before John came home, and 47 minutes of shower time, as long as he kept the water tepid. He intended to use every second.

+++

John was ten minutes later home that day than usual. He’d been in a black mood since this morning, when he’d had to go over to Bart’s on his way to work. The usual smile from Molly had ramped up to radiant when he’d given her the note; she’d been speechless unless a squeal of excitement counted.

“Congratulations,” John had said, but she’d barely noticed him, devouring the List in front of her. John had not opened the envelope, but he knew Harry had included her contact details; based on this reaction, she’d be getting a List of her own pretty soon. The fact that this made him angry, made him even angrier. Why couldn’t he be happy for them, for Christ’s sake?

Harry’s life had been as hard as his, harder in some ways, and she deserved happiness.

Molly was a lovely person, hardworking and sweet; they would be happy, as soulmates were when they decided to be together. The universe rewarding people who listened to it, Mrs. Hudson liked to say. John had struggled against the dark mood all day, finally deciding to walk home from an earlier tube stop, just to try and shake himself into a better frame of mind.

It was a moderate success, he thought, as the door to 221 Baker Street gave way. He trudged up the stairs, frowning when the empty sitting room came into view. Sherlock was home, he could see a light under the bedroom door, but there was an unspoken agreement that John didn’t go into Sherlock’s room, so he turned away.

In the end, it was a typical evening, if somewhat depressing – takeaway and crappy television before he stumbled to bed around midnight. The shower had run while he ate his tea, and at least twice in the night he woke to the sound of the water hitting the bath in the shower below him. What the hell was making Sherlock shower so much, he wondered sleepily. By the time he woke properly it was almost nine, a good solid lie in, except that he was still tired from the disrupted sleep the night before. Too lazy to dress for breakfast, John pulled on a jumper and padded down the stairs.

“Morning, Sher–” John started, then stopped abruptly. Sherlock was sitting at his microscope, apparently lost in something. His posture was too rigid though, and he’d forgotten to put a slide under the lens. Neither of those things had stopped John mid-word though.

It was the smell. The scent. The perfect combination of separate aromas, distinct yet harmonising to form the ideal perfume. It was the smell of his soulmate.

“Sherlock?” John whispered. “What have you done?”

“I might have bought some new Soap,” Sherlock answered, and John could hear the trepidation in his voice.

“New Soap,” John repeated.

“I have never used my prescription Soap. Ever,” Sherlock told him, turning fully from the microscope to look at John. “When I spoke to Molly yesterday, things fell into place.” A slight smile graced his face. “You don’t use your prescription Soap either, do you John?”

John shook his head, still speechless, still overwhelmed by the smell dancing around his head.

“With neither of us using our Soap, we would never know if we were soulmates.” There was a definite hitch on the last word. Sherlock’s speech sped up, as it did when he was making a deduction. “Molly told me soulmates are about stability. About never leaving, knowing the other person will always be there for you. And that they think you’re special just as you are. We already have that, John. We do that, and it made me wonder if we might inadvertently be soulmates. I remembered the times you’ve dismissed the idea of soulmates and how upset you were that Harry had found hers. It’s logical that someone who feels that way might not use their own Soap, opting out of the whole situation. And if that was the case, neither of us using our Soap, we would never know.” He took a breath, finally. “So I ordered my Soap. And I showered.”

“You showered a lot,” John interjected.

“I showered for a total of 243 minutes since last night, yes. I used six cakes of Soap to increase the likelihood of you being able to smell me, on the assumption that you and I are…”

“…soulmates,” John finished for him. He stared at Sherlock, before finally tearing his eyes away and walking over to the desk. Rummaging around, he found a piece of paper and a pen. Without hesitation, John wrote his List as legibly as his shaking hands would allow. He folded it in half and handed it to Sherlock, who read it.

_ John Hamish Watson _

_perfectly made tea_

_antiseptic_

_floral perfume_

Sherlock smiled at him, running his fingers over the words before pocketing the note. “Would you like to shower, John?” he asked carefully. “Mycroft ordered you some special Soap of your own.”

John rolled his eyes, a refreshingly familiar action in this most bizarre of mornings. Trust his soulmate to have a brother with access to John's Number. “Of course he did.” He stepped past Sherlock into the bathroom, smiling when he saw three cake of Soap under a label bearing his name. “I won’t be long.”

Twenty nervous minutes later, John emerged, wearing the robe he’d bought but rarely used. Sherlock had been pacing, but at John’s appearance he stopped and they stared at each other.

“Well?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head, so John walked closer. When he stopped two steps from Sherlock, he found himself inhaling deeply along with Sherlock, the now familiar notes of tea, antiseptic and his mum’s perfume mingling in the back of his nose.

Sherlock’s face was screwed up in concentration, but the moment he inhaled, his face cleared into an expression of joy and relief.

“Old blood, violin rosin, rare tobacco, cordite,” Sherlock said promptly, a broad grin breaking over his face.

“Sherlock!” John admonished him through his own enormous smile. “You’re supposed to write it down!”

“Why?” Sherlock said. “We both know it’s right.”

John looked at him affectionately, relief and gratitude flowing through him. Without his stroppy attitude to Harry’s happiness, they may never have reached this point.

“Right now I’m going to get dressed,” John said. “But I will be back soon.”

“I know,” Sherlock said nonchalantly, but the triumphant violin music into which he launched betrayed his joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of John's Story.


	5. Greg's Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on is Greg's POV. There will be some crossover with what we've seen in the previous chapters but it's primarily Greg's story now.

“What can I do for you, Detective Inspector?” The smooth voice was already setting Greg’s teeth on edge and he hadn’t even had a cup of coffee this morning. What else did he call Mycroft Holmes for, other than Sherlock?

“The same as always, Mycroft,” Greg said, fighting to keep the irritation out of his voice. He had a sneaking suspicion Mycroft knew anyway, which soured his mood even further. He’d only met the man once, in a dark warehouse at night, for goodness sake, yet Mycroft could get under his skin like nobody on earth.

“Sherlock," Mycroft murmured. “What havoc has he wreaked this time, may I ask?”

“Seriously, Mycroft, if he’s going to come to crime scenes he just can’t walk off with evidence! There’s no point him ‘solving the puzzle’ as he calls it, if we can’t get a conviction because the evidence has been compromised!” Greg let some of his exasperation loose in his explanation to Mycroft; there was no way to hold it all in. He’d be out of a job if it happened again, and he was thinking seriously about telling Sherlock he was banned from crime scenes in the future.

Mycroft sighed. “I will speak to him.”

“Do. Tell him if it happens again I’ll stop calling him.”

There was a pause before Mycroft said delicately, “That would be a shame both for your clearance rate and Sherlock’s wellbeing. I implore you to rethink such an ultimatum.”

“It’s not up to me, Mycroft. He gets away with more than anybody, but this is the line. If he crosses it again, he’s out.”

Greg put the phone down, feeling somewhat better that Mycroft understood the seriousness of the situation. A sulky Sherlock was fine; Greg would be happy not to have to listen to him trade snarky comments with Anderson for once.

Looking at his watch, Greg groaned. If he wanted to avoid seeing Angelica – and he certainly did – he’d need to wait another two hours before going home. At least then she’d be passed out on the couch and he wouldn’t have to deal with her as well.

+++

_Consider the matter with Sherlock resolved. – MH_

Thank you. – Greg

_I am aware that my brother can be difficult. If there is anything I can do to smooth your experience with him, please do let me know. – MH_

Get him to work nicely with Anderson, that would be great. – Greg

_I offered help, not a miracle, Detective Inspector. – MH_

Worth a try, though. – Greg

+++

When Greg heard the fire was located on Baker Street, he was out the door before he’d even finished dressing properly. The first cab he saw was promised double the fare if he got there fast; Greg tied his shoes and slung his jacket on as they hurtled around corners. The driver seemed to take the request as a personal challenge, and Greg didn’t bother admonishing him. Instead he threw a small fortune at the man as he pulled up at the north end of Baker Street. It had been cordoned off, and a great plume of smoke was rising from a flat near Sherlock’s. A bunch of residents were standing around in various states of readiness for the day, some huddling against the cold, all of them coughing against the swirling smoke.

Greg crossed the police tape, grateful the young constable recognised him, and approached the group. From what he could tell, the smoke was coming from one of the flats adjoining 221.

“Anyone seen Sherlock Holmes?” he asked. Nobody knew who Sherlock was, so Greg added, “Tall bloke, curly dark hair, skinny?”

“Oh, him,” One young man answered. “Yeah, he went back into his place, something about an experiment?”

Greg swore, thanked the man and swore again. He scanned the scene, coughing hard, and spied a dark car, certainly not emergency services.

Leaning against an umbrella, looking both enormously overdressed and mildly irritated, was a tall man. His three piece suit was impeccable, and Greg found himself admiring the long legs that seemed to go on forever. There was something familiar about him, something in the expression on his face. Where had Greg seen him before? As Greg cocked his head and watched, the man raised a phone to his ear.

When his own phone rang, Greg answered without thinking. “DI Lestrade.”

“Why don’t you come over here and talk to me instead of observing from the other side of the street?” Mycroft’s voice sounded in his ear as Greg watched the ginger man’s mouth move, then twist into a smirk. He hung up and looked at Greg, expression challenging.

“Dammit,” Greg muttered. He habitually looked both ways before crossing the crowded street, coughing against the smoke as it wafted across him. Acrid and dense, it might be the death of his suit, he thought despairingly. No way he wanted to smell this for the next six months.

“Mycroft,” Greg greeted him. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but the smoke was all over the street and the smell really was awful. “So nice to see you in the daylight this time.”

“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft inclined his head, ignoring the allusion to their first meeting, a late night kidnapping in which Greg was subtly interrogated about his involvement with Sherlock.

“Do you know what’s happened? I assumed…” Greg trailed off, not wanting to offend Mycroft by disparaging his brother.

“Of course it was Sherlock. Who else would create a prototype rocket in their living room that could pierce a wall and promptly start smoking in the neighbour’s sitting room?” Mycroft sounded more sarcastic than Greg was used to, and he grinned. At least they were on the same page today when it came to Sherlock.

“Something amusing, Detective Inspector?” Greg was brought back to the present by Mycroft’s words. He looked over, relieved to see a small smile tugging at the otherwise prim man’s mouth.

“No more than usual, Mycroft,” Greg paused. “My name’s Greg, by the way. A lot less of a mouthful than Detective Inspector.”

Mycroft stared for a moment and then inclined his head. “As you wish.”

They fell silent, though the scene around them still teemed with people and emergency services.

Greg coughed again, covering his mouth as the acrid smoke still drifted around. “Have you see Sherlock?” he asked finally.

“He was forcibly removed but broke free to return to his flat,” Mycroft replied. “I had a fire fighter take him some air as he refused to leave.” He shrugged, and Greg imagined he could see the frustration of the older brother trying to protect his stubborn younger sibling. “It was the best I could do under the circumstances.”

Greg nodded. Sherlock could be such a pain in the arse. He’d bet money that Sherlock would take zero responsibility for this mess, too. Probably grouse about the noise of the clean-up or something, even though he caused it and was unlikely to pay for it, Mycroft being who he was.

“I’d better go and find him,” Mycroft said reluctantly, looking at his watch and sighing.

“I’ll go if you like,” Greg found himself saying. He coughed again. “Well, if you can find me some air I will.” He grinned at Mycroft, who was staring at him like he’d offered Sherlock a kidney. “He’s probably all set to fight it out with you, so I might have an easier time of it.” Mycroft still looked hesitant, so Greg added, “Look, once his air runs out he’s going to have to come out. If my tank is full before I go in, I can wait him out. I won’t need to try and make him leave, I’ll just make sure he’s okay until he decides to leave, which I reckon will be about three minutes after his air runs out.”

After careful consideration, Mycroft replied, “That would be very generous, Det- Greg. Are you sure you can spare the time?”

“Sure. It’s my day off, my suit is already ruined, and if I go home now I’ll just have an argument with my wife to look forward to,” Greg shrugged.

“Fine, then. Anthea will source you a breathing apparatus.”

They stood without speaking for a few moments until his assistant brought Greg a set of breathing equipment. He’d used it before, so it was fairly simple to get it on and adjusted.

“I would appreciate a phone call when Sherlock has vacated his flat,” Mycroft said, coughing into his handkerchief.

Greg gave him a thumbs up before making his way over to the entrance to 221 Baker Street. This would not be fun, he thought, but it was worth it for two reasons: the look of gratitude and relief on Mycroft’s face, and he could postpone the inevitable argument with his wife.

+++

He’s out. Five houses will need to be basically emptied and dry cleaned before they are liveable again. Plus the wall that needs to be rebuilt. – Greg

_Send me the contact details of each resident and I will arrange alternative accommodation and cleaning services. Thank you once again. It is much appreciated, even if Sherlock does not say so. – MH_

No problem. – Greg

+++

“Hi Mycroft. Sherlock’s settled back into Baker Street. Skull on the mantle, microscope on the table, eyes in the microwave,” Greg chuckled. “It’s like he never left.”

“Yes, it was a long seven weeks but I suspect he is happy to be home.”

“No more rockets in future, I hope,” Greg said.

Mycroft’s tone was pitying. “Oh Greg. Have you met my brother at all?”

“I’m going for optimistic here, Mycroft. A man can dream!” Greg protested with a grin.

“Of good scotch and a quiet night, yes. Of a sensible brother, not so much.”

Greg was surprised to hear Mycroft express an opinion about something so personal. “Is that what you dream of?” He ventured.

“Is that not a restful way to pass an evening? No international crises and good scotch to smooth the way.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Greg admitted. “My life is not so quiet right now. Turns out marrying outside a soulmate bond is not always a good idea.” He gave an awkward chuckle, wondering if it was too much information.

“You and your wife are not soulmates?” Mycroft blurted. Greg heard him draw a breath, then say in a formal tone, “My deepest apologies. My previous question was inappropriate and rude. Please do not feel compelled to answer it.”

“Hey, I brought it up,” Greg said, though it felt odd to discuss it with anyone. “Angelica told me she was pregnant, so we got married. Turned out she lied.” He summed up the last five miserable years of his life in two sentences. If only he could get up the courage to leave her, things would be so much better. _But you’d be a failure_ , his father’s voice sounded in his ears.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Her main issue is that I still use my prescription Soap,” Greg went on, not entirely sure why he was sharing this with Mycroft, except it felt right. Mycroft was listening without judgement, and that was what he needed. “We know we’re not each other’s soulmates, but she wants me to stop buying it anyway. As though that might make things work.”

“It can be difficult to face an unwanted truth,” Mycroft said neutrally.

Greg nodded. “Yes it can.”

“May I ask, if I’m not prying, Greg, why you are still married to her?” Mycroft asked. Greg could hear the hesitation in his voice. It was a pretty personal question, but a natural one given their conversation so far.

“I have no idea,” Greg answered. Mycroft did not reply, and they both stayed on the line for another few moments.

“I should go,” Greg said finally. For some reason these few quiet moments with Mycroft had made him feel better. They were curiously intimate moments, listening to each other breathe, and Greg was grateful for Mycroft giving him the space.

“Thank you for letting me know about Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “If you ever need anything, Greg, please do not hesitate to ask.” He paused, then added hastily, “If you do decide to separate I have avenues to expedite proceedings if you would like. I would be only too happy to be of service.”

Greg was touched by the thoughtful gesture. “Thanks, Mycroft, that’s great. I’ll see you around.”

“Good night, Greg.”

+++

I could go for one of your quiet nights in right now – will people ever stop killing each other? – Greg

_Are you well, Greg? - MH_

Sorry. Another stupid knifing over something trivial. Just a bit hopeless today. – Greg

_You do good work, Greg. Without your effort guilty men and woman would roam the streets. – MH_

You make it sound so noble. It’s mostly paperwork. – Greg

_Even so. Noble paperwork. – MH_

Thanks Mycroft. – Greg

_Anytime. – MH_

+++

What’s this in aid of? – Greg

_In light of your melancholia last week, I thought you might like to celebrate your arrests with a good Scotch and a quiet night. – MH_

Wow, thanks. Better cross fingers for the quiet night, I’m still on call. Thanks for the Scotch, though. – Greg

_No, you’re not. – MH_

What? – Greg

_Check your schedule, I believe you’ll find you have two paid mental health days booked, beginning this evening. – MH_

You can do that? – Greg

_Obviously. Enjoy some down time, Greg. You deserve it. – MH_

Thanks Mycroft. – Greg

_Anytime. – MH_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a BBC paraphrase in this chapter, which is fairly obvious, but I'll be impressed if anyone recognises the Buffy quote. I was very pleased to be able to fit that one in!

The next time Greg saw Mycroft, they were at a particularly gruesome crime scene. It had been four months since the smoke incident; that was the last time they had met face to face. Phone calls were a regular occurrence, now, and text exchanges, which Greg preferred because one or both of them was so often busy with work. They naturally talked about Sherlock but also increasingly more personal topics.

Mycroft knew all about Greg and Angelica’s marriage, though Greg had not asked about Mycroft’s romantic life. Greg wondered if Mycroft preferred to date men, then justified it as an idle wondering rather than the slightly wistful longing it was. They couldn’t be soulmates, though; neither had recognised the individual scent either at the warehouse or that morning on Baker Street.

Greg filed his emotions regarding Mycroft under ‘Do Not Examine’ as a preventative measure. The last thing he needed was more heartache. So when Mycroft arrived at the crime scene, Greg’s stomach flip flopped, and he let it. He looked great, Greg thought.

As Mycroft approached Greg pulled his eyes north again, meeting those pale grey eyes and smiling.

“Hiya,” he said casually, thinking it odd he could be so excited to see someone he conversed with on an almost daily basis.

“Greg,” Mycroft greeted him, looking at the carnage around them with an expression of distaste.

“I know,” Greg said. “Pretty sure this guy fell into the commercial sausage machine before it spat him out over here.” He indicated a pile of flesh, unrecognisable as human except for the cloth that covered some of the mangled pieces. “Someone must have turned off the machine and just left him there.”

Mycroft frowned. “Is Sherlock not coming?” he asked.

Greg grinned. “Sherlock and John are on their way.”

“John? Ahhh, Doctor Watson. Just who I am here to ask you about, as a matter of fact,” Mycroft said.

Greg looked at him expectantly, waiting for the question. Mycroft looked down, cleared this throat and finally spoke in a low voice. “Is he good for Sherlock?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, impressed once again at the depth of Mycroft’s care for his brother. “Yeah, he really is.”

A cab pulled up and Sherlock stepped out, followed by John. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the Doctor, no doubt deducing like crazy.

“Be nice to him,” Greg murmured before moving back to his team. Urgh, decomposing bodies were the worst, he thought.

Sherlock sure seemed happy, though. Watching the brothers and John interacting, Greg saw surprise flicker across Mycroft’s face before he spoke once more then walked back to his car. He felt a pang of hurt that Mycroft had not said goodbye, but pulled himself up on it. Mycroft didn’t own him anything.

Later that day, Greg went down to the morgue to see if they had any evidence he could use to generate a lead on Sausage Man’s case. He’d admonished Donovan for coming up with the nickname, but he did have to admit that it had stuck.

Walking into the morgue, Greg saw Molly staring into space, a section of vertebrae held suspended in mid-air over the remains from the sausage factory. The exhaust fans were on full blast but the scent was still strong.

“Hi, Molly,” Greg said a little louder than usual, and she jumped a little.

“Oh, hi Greg,” She said, beaming at him and putting the vertebrae down on the table behind her. She appeared to be looking for recognisable sections of body, setting them out in anatomical position when they were identified.

“You look happy,” Greg pointed out. She was glowing, he thought. Can’t be the work, it was satisfying but not that level of joy.

“I think I met my soulmate yesterday,” she said in a rush as though she’d been waiting to tell someone.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Wow, congratulations. Have you written to them?”

She shook her head. “I’m going to give it a few days. She seemed pretty shaken. Well, so did I, I’m sure, but I’m mainly excited.”

Greg nodded sympathetically. They’d had a few heart-to-heart talks at various times, and he knew that she was sometimes desperately lonely. Hopefully this would be the start of something wonderful for her.

“Maybe she’ll write to you first,” Greg teased gently, and was rewarded with a pink blush.

“Oh, Greg, you tease,” she said happily. She hesitated then said conspiratorially, “Can I tell you what I smelled? It was amazing.”

Greg nodded, leaning back on a clean bench. She probably didn’t have anyone to share this with, and her joy and excitement was wonderful to see.

Molly took a breath, composing herself. “It was weird, like scents I know really well but somehow they were all part of the same smell. And it wasn’t yuck, though it should have been. It was catnip, cheap perfume and latex gloves.” She held up her gloved hands and wiggled the fingers, giggling as she did so. “How ridiculous is that?”

“Actually I can see the gloves and the catnip, that’s obvious,” he said, not wanting to ask about the perfume.

“The perfume was my sister’s,” Molly told him without prompting. “She died when I was eight. She would get ready in the morning and always finish with that perfume, and when she left for work I would stand in the same spot and breathe it in, imagining I was her. She was so glamorous.” The memory made her smile, and Greg let her enjoy the warmth of it for a while.

“Sorry Greg, you didn’t come here to hear me bang on about my life,” Molly said suddenly, as though only just realising that Greg was actually working. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m actually after anything you have on this guy.” He indicated the remains in front of her.

She wrinkled her nose. “Nothing so far, sorry. I’ll have to see what bits I can find first. I’ll run DNA for identification too, but that’ll take some time.”

Greg nodded; he hadn’t expected a miracle. These things sometimes took weeks, and there was nothing he could do to change that.

“Okay, thanks Molly. Give me a buzz when there’s anything. And congratulations again. You deserve it.” He left with her blinding grin following him out. His own smile, an automatic response to hers, faded as soon as he was in the corridor. He was happy for Molly, of course, but a little sad about his own situation. He wished Angelica would wear her Soap and find her soulmate and be happy, for Christ’s sake. At least then he could be miserable and alone in the quiet instead of tip-toeing around her tantrums.

+++

As it turned out, miserable was miserable, regardless of the ambient noise.

Greg stared around the silent flat, which looked exactly the same as it had an hour ago, when his wife lived there. She had let fly as soon as he had walked in, screaming about how the dinner was ruined because he was late. Greg had just blinked at her, allowing the shrill voice to surround him without making any impact, oddly removed from the situation.

When it stopped, he’d opened his mouth and told her flatly that he was done. Either she could leave or he would, but he wasn’t playing this game any longer. The shock on her face had been short-lived, replaced by the purple-red of vengeful rage. Greg had learned about her infidelity then, and her smug claim that Dylan was her soulmate rang hollow. Whether it was true or not was immaterial; he was done with her. He’d sat quietly as she packed her personal belongings and slammed out of the flat, the vibration of the door hitting the doorjamb shuddering through the sofa.

Greg had thought he would be happy when she was gone, yet here he was, staring around the flat, hyper-aware of his solitude. It all looked the same, which didn’t help. There was nothing to overtly mark the difference. She hadn’t taken the framed photos, or their joint calendar; the shopping list was still pinned to the fridge, as was the pile of takeaway menus they used more often than not. Even the thought that he could order spicy curry without her sulking didn’t cheer him up. What if his soulmate was out there, but they never met? Or worse, his soulmate didn’t wear their Soap. It could happen – might have happened already to Angelica. Could certainly happen to him, too.

Sighing, Greg grabbed his phone.

 

Pint? – Greg

_Now? – John_

Why, you busy? – Greg

_Kind of, yeah. – John_

Don’t tell me you’ve pulled already. It’s only half-seven! – Greg

_Might have found my soulmate. – John_

Might? – Greg

_Did. Turns out Sherlock never wore his Soap either. – John_

Bloody hell. Congrats. Pint next week then. On me. – Greg

_Cheers mate. – John_

 

Greg stared at his phone. That was the exact scenario he’d just envisioned – one person hasn’t been wearing their Soap, starts wearing their Soap again, finds their soulmate instantly. What were the chances? He knew you were supposed to be happy if you found your soulmate, but his mind kept throwing up possibilities that made him shudder. Anderson. Sally. Mycroft. _Mycroft?_ Greg shook his head at that. Mycroft was the most observant man in the world. He probably had some obscure department of the Government track down his soulmate when he was in primary school just so he could keep an eye on them.

Greg, standing at a shelf staring at a photo of himself and Angelica _(Why had they framed that? He’d never liked it, they weren’t even happy when that picture was taken)_ , decided he needed a drink. Most of the very nice Scotch Mycroft had bought him was still in the bottle – he poured himself two fingers and swirled it around the one cut crystal glass he owned, breathing in the peaty scent. He wondered if Scotch was part of his scent. He knew it wasn’t part of his soulmates – that List was burned on his brain.

+++

It was an interesting combination, the Olfactor had commented as such when he’d been to visit. Greg could still see himself, a trembling twelve year old looking up at the wizened old man, gnarly hands scrawling on a piece of paper.

_“Fais en sorte de détruire ça, mon garçon, une fois que tu l’as mémorisé. N’en parle à personne. Personne!”_

He’d nodded, only half sure he’d understood the French before turning and fleeing.

His father had caught him and made sure he understood the importance of his _Identifiant_ and his _Listé_. These words, at least, were more familiar, even in French. His father was determined that he learn the language fluently and they had moved to rural France for a while when Greg was young. As an adult, Greg appreciated the benefits of his bilingual upbringing. Reflecting on his time in France brought memories of loneliness and anxiety of a boy whose French was far more formal than the casual dialect employed by local boys, however.

Greg found himself reaching for his phone without thinking, almost texting John. His thumb hesitated over the drafted message. John and Sherlock would been even more inseparable if they’d started wearing their Soaps; Greg would only be able to drag John to the pub occasionally, and probably only when Sherlock was immersed in an experiment. They would be beyond happy, Greg knew. It was the deep contentment of a pair of souls meeting and deliberately intertwining their lives. It was, in fact, the last thing he needed right now. He changed his mind, deleting John and adding a new recipient.

 

Hi. – Greg

 

Greg sent the message, staring at the screen for a second, wondering if he could possibly be any more pathetic. As he wondered, the blinking ellipsis told him a reply would be forthcoming.

_Greg. Are you well? - MH_

No. – Greg

 

He replied without thinking, without allowing himself to debate the wording of his answer. He felt blank, a little removed as though he had no right to emote over this conversation. Greg had an idea why he’d chosen Mycroft to contact but he deliberately ignored it. Now was not the time for angsty introspection.

 

_Can I help? – MH_

Angelica’s left. Or I threw her out. Probably depends who you ask. – Greg

_What is your perspective? – MH_

I threw her out. Gave her a choice, actually, but she’s off with her soulmate anyway.  – Greg

_She’s been wearing her Soap? – MH_

Doubt it. – Greg

_A defensive barb, then. – MH_

 Yeah. – Greg

 

The ellipsis danced for longer than it took Greg to get a beer and return to the sofa, sprawling on his back across the length of it. Finally, a response came though.

 

_I am not sure exactly what to say, Greg. – MH_

That’s a first. – Greg

_This is not the usual scenario for which my counsel is sought. – MH_

Of course not. We have no nuclear weapons and barely a political connection between us. – Greg

_Indeed. – MH_

_What would comfort you to hear, should I say it? – MH_

Lie to me. – Greg

_I beg your pardon? – MH_

Tell me how great the world is, how the good guys are always stalwart and true and the bad guys are always distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats. No one ever dies and everybody lives happily ever after. – Greg

 

The ellipsis appeared and disappeared as Greg abandoned the beer for Scotch. Not as good as the stuff Mycroft had bought him, but a good long slug still went to his head, it just burned more on the way down. Finally, his vision a little blurry, Greg saw a response.

 

_Greg, are you drunk? – MH_

Yes. A bit. – Greg

A lot. – Greg

_Just because she had a soulmate doesn’t mean she will be happy. – MH_

That’s a good lie, Mycroft. – Greg

_Assuming she’s telling the truth, of course. – MH_

Now you’ve spoiled it. – Greg

_Just because you don’t have one doesn’t mean you have to be unhappy. – MH_

I don’t have to be, but I am. – Greg

_Perhaps with time and the opportunity to meet new people, you’ll find someone to make you happy. – MH_

Like my soulmate. – Greg

_Not necessarily. – MH_

Angrily, Greg stared. He couldn’t be bothered typing out his message, so he called Mycroft, blinking rapidly against the fuzzy vision. No more Scotch, he thought to himself.

“Greg,” Mycroft answered, and Greg started talking as soon as he heard his name.

“But that’s what soulmates DO, Mycroft. They make you happy. Have you seen Sherlock and John lately? I bet they're content, happy, nothing pisses them off about each other. Sherlock’s still an arse, but John bloody loves it now. And John will always have to ask Sherlock to explain things, but Sherlock smiles at him while he does it. I want that. I want to be happy just because I’m alive, not because my bitch of a wife has left me for someone who probably isn’t her soulmate either!” Greg stopped, hearing the inconsistencies in his speech.

It was a full minute before Mycroft spoke. “There are still aspects of their relationship that are not optimal, Greg. It is not, I am lead to believe, all sunshine and roses.”

Greg bit his lip, which did nothing to stem the flow of the words that came in response. “It never is, Mycroft. Relationships can be hard, but knowing the other person is there because they actually feel a connection, because they’ve wanted the same as you, that’s worth it. People who don’t wear their Soap are opting out, but they’re opting someone else out too, only without asking."

He could feel himself getting worked up. "Someone that gets up and showers every day, wondering if today is the day. But it never is for them, and they never know why, and they don’t get a choice! How often do you hear of someone finding their soulmate and not staying? Never happens! Because it’s so good to find them.”

Greg swallowed. The Scotch was still messing with his mental filter, and he found himself pouring out his fears to Mycroft. He’d touched on some of this in one or two of their more personal conversations, but never in such stark honesty. “What if I’ve met them already, but they don’t want me? There’s always one person who notices it first. Or they might not even wear their Soap, so I’m walking around like a bloody beacon of idiocy and they’ve decided I’m not worth it."

"Dammit, I am a GOOD MAN!” Greg roared, knowing his neighbours would be irate at his noise. “I’m loyal, and hardworking, considerate, I don’t leave empty milk cartons in the fridge or eat the last of the biscuits. What if that’s not enough? I want…I need to know there’s someone else who thinks I’m worth it too. But if I don’t find them, I’ll never know. And that makes me question it, am I worth it anyway? And I want to be that for someone, you know? Have someone amazing that I can show every day how amazing they are. Amazing.” Greg stopped, realising he was repeating himself and getting maudlin in the process. Damn, he really needed to stop drinking and eat something, down some water and get to bed.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I didn’t realise you felt so strongly about this, Greg.”

“Yeah, well, I do,” Greg sighed. “Look, I’d better go. I need to eat and sleep and whatever. Sorry Mycroft, this isn’t your fault.” He hung up, forcing himself to stand and make something to eat.

Greg didn’t hear Mycroft murmur quietly, with only the empty air to hear. “I think it might be, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg's French Olfactor says, "Make sure you destroy this, my boy, once you have memorised it. Don't tell anyone. No one!" Thanks to Sallyfone for her translation.


	7. Chapter 7

Greg awoke with a minimal hangover. He was grateful for his years of partying hard at this moment. All the times he’d experimented with hang over prevention had paid off, and his approach of ‘all the water you can drink and then one more glass with paracetamol’ still worked. He felt a little seedy, but a shower and hot breakfast soon fixed that.

Looking around as he ate, Greg decided today was a good day to rearrange the flat, get rid of some things, make it more reflective of him rather than the couple that no longer existed. With a determined and slightly forced cheer, Greg found an empty box and started chucking in all the photos of himself and Angelica, along with any other personal items she’d left behind. Her girly novels, a few knick-knacks, the terribly scratchy throw blanket across the back of the sofa.

He dumped the box by the front door, then turned to look at the living room. It looked a little different already. Greg spent an hour or so shifting the sofa around, sitting on it and deciding to move the TV, which could only happen if the bookcase was over there…by the time he’d finished, sweaty and breathing hard, the whole room had been rearranged. He sat on the sofa surveying his work. It was certainly different; far more user friendly when you didn’t give a rat’s arse about the feng shui and only wanted to be able to see the TV while lying stretched out on the couch.

He was just considering having a celebratory bacon sarnie with his breakfast leftovers when there was a knock at the door.

Greg frowned, wondering who it was as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He figured his hair was standing up all over by now, and he could feel his t-shirt sticking a little to his back. He definitely needed another shower after his impromptu furniture rearrangement. Not that it matters, the bitter little voice piped up. The thought burst the tiny bubble of satisfaction that had come from the change to the living room, and he reached the door in a lower mood than when he’d left the couch.

Taking a deep breath, Greg opened the door, hoping whomever it was would not require too much of his energy.

Nobody was there.

No people at least; a helium balloon sat at eye level, weighted down perfectly with an envelope so it hovered in mid-air. Shaking his head at the flawless balance, Greg looked around – not a soul in sight. He shrugged and grasped the envelope and balloon; it didn’t look like a bomb threat, so he opened the envelope right there, unable to quell his curiosity long enough to take it inside. The envelope was cream coloured but unmarked on the outside, and contained one piece of matching stationery, also a heavy and expensive looking paper.

Greg’s heart was racing as his brain took the clues ( _perfectly weighted balloon, stealthy getaway, expensive paper_ ) and came to one impossible conclusion. He ignored the voice that told him who would have left him such an odd gift.

_I_ _mpossible._

Opening the paper, Greg’s eyes took in the few lines of impeccably scripted words and he froze. The handwriting was elegant, clearly done with an expensive fountain pen instead of the 10-for-99p ballpoints he pinched from work. It was one more clue, the penultimate piece of evidence, superseded only by the simple sign-off at the end of the note.

_– MH_

The same as his texts. Greg’s mouth was dry, and he knew he was still standing in his doorway, staring at his List in someone else’s handwriting for the second time in his life. For the second time, he felt confused, adrift; for the second time he wished someone would come along and explain what the hell was going on. His heart was pounding and he blinked, hoping his lungs could keep up with the sudden demand for oxygen in every part of his body.

__

_ Mycroft Holmes (BBW–MAH241270) _

_freshly pressed linen_

_dusty library_

_freshly baked cake_

_piano lacquer_

 

_My deepest apologies, Greg. I did not know how important it was to you – or to me._

_– MH_

 

What the hell? For all his speed in figuring out that it was Mycroft who left the balloon and the envelope, it was taking Greg’s brain a remarkable amount of time to fit this final and blindingly obvious piece of the puzzle.

Mycroft was his soulmate.

The List Greg was reading was the same one the little old man had thrust at him so many years ago; this time it was familiar, though seeing it written in another’s hand was odd. He itched to ask about the meaning of each item, though he knew how bad mannered it was, but his brain kept reminding him that his soulmate was no longer a faceless shape, but Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft bloody Holmes, Greg thought dazedly.

After a moment, Greg pulled himself together. Taking a deep breath, he wondered what to do next. He’d never smelled anything at all when he’d been around Mycroft, although thinking back…Greg let his head drop back, a groan of understanding finally coming to him.

“You knew the first time we met,” Greg said aloud. He had no idea why he spoke the words, so when Mycroft appeared somewhat hesitantly from around the corner, Greg jumped a mile.

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed the deduction Greg had just made. He looked apprehensive, Greg thought. Despite this, he held Greg’s eyes, albeit from a considerable distance.

“You knew?” Greg asked now, the realisation that Mycroft had deliberately kept this from him starting to sting.

“You were married when we first met,” Mycroft told him carefully. “I had no idea why you still wore your Soap, being married to someone that wasn’t your soulmate, but I did not want to potentially disrupt your marriage for the sake of this.”

“So you…what? Avoided me?”

“Yes.”

“And this,” Greg repeated. “And what is this, exactly?” He could feel anger roiling within him now, fighting with the anxiety and hurt and lack of understanding within him.

“At the time, an inconvenience. Something I could not control,” Mycroft admitted. There was silence between them, even in the communal hallway; Greg could see Mycroft’s palm flexing against his umbrella.

“And now?” Greg asked.

“And now…” Mycroft repeated. “It is complicated. I would very much like the opportunity to explain it to you.”

Greg stared at him, then slowly crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Go ahead.”

Mycroft looked taken aback, but resignation crossed his face and he nodded. “I had never wanted a soulmate, I resented the lack of control over this person who would apparently be so important. My parents insisted I wear my Soap, which I continued to do as a mark of respect, though I dreaded the possibility of meeting that one individual.” He hesitated, before ploughing on. “That day, I could smell it immediately, which is why I insisted we take separate cars. I needed to think. I stood as far away as possible and kept the interview short. You may have noticed how long it was until we spoke again face to face.”

“The rocket,” Greg remembered.

“The smoke was acrid enough to cover any scent,” Mycroft admitted. “I didn’t expect to see you, and I was reckless. That was the first time I called you Greg, and you showed you cared about Sherlock.” His face turned a delicate shade of pink as he admitted, “I was pleased that we continued to be in contact despite the lack of meetings in person. I believe we became more than professional acquaintances.”

Greg almost laughed at the hesitant description of their friendship. “Just a bit.”

“Nevertheless, I knew we would have to meet again, so I ensured again it would be somewhere with an interfering scent.”

“The meat grinder guy,” Greg recalled, inhaling as though he could once again fill his nostrils with the eucalyptus scent of the Vaseline they used at bad crime scenes. “I couldn’t smell anything, thank Christ.”

“At that point I knew there was a connection. I felt…” Mycroft paused, “something.”

Greg did not reply.

“I knew by then how frustrated you were in your marriage, how unhappy. I am not well versed in personal relationships, and I was not sure of the best way to approach the possibility of our Soaps being compatible.”

 Greg couldn’t help but grin at the sterile description of their soulmate bond. His anger had abated as he listened to Mycroft. He had forgotten how different their upbringing had been. Mycroft had been candid about his parents’ loveless marriage, their insistence that he find his soulmate and remain bound to them for life. Given Mycroft’s private nature, it was no surprise that he would shy away from the lifelong bond with someone he barely knew.

“We’ve had very different influences when it comes to soulmates.” Greg ventured. He didn’t want to criticize Mycroft’s family, but geez, they’d screwed him up when it came to this. Greg felt the stirrings of sympathy and admiration that Mycroft would make such an effort to overcome his ingrained reticence.

“Indeed.” Mycroft agreed. “It wasn’t until last night that I realised how much this connection meant to you. You described such joy in it as I had never considered. I had never realised that I could bring that to someone as part of such a relationship, or that my decision not to actively seek it out would deprive you of that same jubilant experience.”

“I’m sorry, Greg. If you’ll have me, I would very much like to explore this further with you,” He hesitated, still standing at the end of the corridor. _Too far away for me to smell his Soap._

“That’s why you’re so standing far away,” Greg finally realised. His heart beat faster as he realised Mycroft was wearing his Soap for him.

For his soulmate.

For Greg.

Greg stepped closer, breathing deeply until just a hint of something wafted towards him, a tantalising tease of something wonderful. His fingers clenched around the List still in his hand. He took another step forward, then another, and suddenly it was like being enveloped in a heady mist. The scents surrounded him, but rather than fighting each other, they danced together, nourishing each other and supporting the overall combination which left Greg gasping. It was familiar and right and warm. He pulled away, mere steps from Mycroft, and retreated into his flat.

Grabbing a pen, Greg scribbled at the bottom of the page under Mycroft’s list. He bolted back out, relieved to see Mycroft still standing in the hall. Greg took a deep breath then walked the few steps forward again, into the sphere of scent that now surrounded Mycroft.

“Here.” He said abruptly, thrusting the note back at Mycroft, who stared at him before finally dropping his eyes to read.

__

_ Gregory Lestrade (PLS–GPL081175) _

_weathered leather_

_warm scones_

_grass_

 

Greg’s eyes were on the paper, and as it began to tremble in Mycroft’s hand, he looked up, into the tremulously smiling blue eyes above.

“How remarkable,” Mycroft said softly.

Greg smiled, his heart trembling in time with Mycroft’s hand. “Cuppa?” he asked, feeling the request was far too mundane for such a life-changing event.

Mycroft accepted, and they sat at Greg’s little table, tea, milk and sugar squeezed onto the table between them.

“So,” Greg started, then stopped. “I’ll tell you about mine if you’ll tell me about yours.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a fairly intimate suggestion, Greg.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, a slight frown crossing his face. “But we know each other quite well already.”

Mycroft inclined his head in a ‘you’re right’ kind of way.

Greg watched the colour of his tea swirl and change as he added milk before continuing. “My dad loved his motorbike. His leathers were always soft and warm and smelled amazing. The old leather moulded to him when he rode, and they became mine when I first bought a bike. I have it around somewhere. Warm scones – the first thing I ever learned to cook on my own, and mine were always better than my mums. I cooked them every week that we lived in France, and we’d do a Devonshire tea with the works.” He looked down at the tea, now a uniform rich brown. “It was the only really good thing about France, at least in the beginning. The grass is about football.”

“Have you always played?”

“Except when I was in France. But in London, yeah. Since I was a kid. Now I’m less likely to slide all over but the smell is still…” Greg shook his head, feeling the smile tug at his lips.

“It’s comforting. Familiar,” Mycroft supplied, and Greg smiled.

“Yeah.”

After a beat of silence, Greg looked at Mycroft and said, “Well?”

Mycroft shifted self-consciously and Greg could hear the discomfort in his voice as he spoke. “When my parents were disagreeing I would hide in the laundry.”

Greg frowned. “The laundry?”

“An area of the servants quarters in which linen and clothes are washed and pressed, Greg.” The sarcastic answer drew a raised eyebrow, but Greg did not speak. Mycroft went on, “The smell of warm linen is still comforting. When I was old enough to understand about soulmates, I spent hours in the library. I read everything I could find on soulmates, Olfactors, anything I could find that might allow me to circumvent…” he stopped, dropping his gaze from Greg’s.

A flare of hurt had risen in Greg’s chest at the admission, but it died as he studied Mycroft’s remorse, understanding it was the response of a frightened boy, nothing more. “Go on,” he encouraged. “What about the cake?”

Mycroft looked up at him, another shade of embarrassment on his face. “I know people do not generally discuss the composition of their partner’s Soap, but in that detail in particular I would appreciate your discretion. I was…portly as a child. The cook was sympathetic to my blue eyes and curls, and I was shameless in my exploitation.”

Greg chuckled. “I’d love to see pics, Mycroft.”

The response was immediate. “Not likely, Gregory.”

“Ooh, so I’m Gregory sometimes, am I?” Greg teased. He did note that Mycroft was obviously still sensitive about how he looked and resolved never to bring it up in jest.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replied, a small smile across his mouth.

“Piano resin, then?” Greg asked. He frowned a little. “Why do you have four and I have three?”

“I’m a more complex individual, clearly,” Mycroft sounded smug.

“Oi! Are you saying I’m simple?” Greg asked indignantly.

“Of course not.” Mycroft replied smoothly. “My favourite master at school was the Music teacher. I took piano lessons too, of course, but he was my mentor and confidante. It was through his recommendation I was first engaged in Her Majesty’s service.”

Greg nodded, filling in the details Mycroft had not supplied. The only place he felt at ease at boarding school was with his music teacher, surrounded by the scent of the instruments on which he played.

“It’s all about comfort, isn’t it?” Greg mused aloud.

“I believe so,” Mycroft murmured.

Both their mugs were empty now, the tea warming them from the inside. Greg tapped his finger against the mug, wondering what happened now. Soulmates were usually close, but the relationship was not always sexual or even romantic; some pairs were simply close flatmates. He knew he wanted more with Mycroft, more than friendship. Given the other man’s history and the huge step he’d already taken though, Greg was not sure how to frame the question: what are we, apart from Soulmates?

“So…” Greg said, having nothing to say but needing to fill the silence. He could feel his muscles had tightened up as they’d sat and talked; he really should have a shower. He stood, intending to take their mugs to the sink but Mycroft rose at the same time, and suddenly they were standing toe to toe in Greg’s small kitchen.

The space between them was negligible; while they weren’t exactly touching, Greg could feel Mycroft’s proximity. He’d almost become used to the scent, but the movement and closeness brought it swirling back. The grass and leather and scones were all there, assailing his brain, throwing emotions and memories at him, but there was something else too, something more fundamental that whispered comfort and security and familiarity. It was the extra element, the elusive additional _something_ that science could not identify that made the limbic systems of Soulmates release dopamine and serotonin and other happiness-inducing chemicals.

Greg had always remembered that part of his high school biology, fascinated by the idea of something science couldn’t identify having such a profound impact on his brain. Right now he could feel the hormones racing through his body, relaxing his tense muscles, drawing a smile on his face and bringing him confidence. That confidence allowed him to raise one hand and rest it on Mycroft’s chest; it had barely settled when it was covered with one of Mycroft’s. Neither spoke, but Greg knew that whatever the details, he and his soulmate were connected.


	8. Brothers and Sisters

Greg waited at the pub for John, content to sit and let the sound wash over him. He and Mycroft had figured themselves out now; the bond was stronger than he’d thought it would be, and they talked every day. Watching Mycroft discover how wonderful it was made Greg smile constantly, even here, sitting at the pub on his own. The contentment they both felt, particularly when they were close, was something Greg fervently hoped would never fade. Mycroft had relaxed more than Greg had ever seen, smiling and even chuckling on a regular basis now.

“You look happy,” John’s voice sounded from behind Greg.

“Hi,” Greg said, and on impulse, he pulled John into a hug. It was the first time they’d seen each other since John and Sherlock had found each other; John didn’t know that Greg had also found Mycroft recently.

“Er, we’re mates that hug now, are we?” John asked uncomfortably, signalling to the bartender for a pint of his own. “Or have you been waiting for a while?”

“This is my first pint. That was a congratulatory hug, no fear of it becoming a regular thing,” Greg assured him.

John nodded and sat down, a smile breaking over his face as he remembered why Greg would be hugging him.

“So it’s good, then?” Greg asked.

John nodded without speaking, mouth full of beer. “The connection is just…amazing.” John told him, swallowing.

Greg listened to him talk about how exactly he and Sherlock realised they were Soulmates living together without realising it.

“Don’t go telling too many people that story, you’ll end up doing some kind of research testing. You know how they are, wanting to know if Soulmates recognise each other without the Soap,” Greg advised. “Though we both know that doesn’t happen. Gotta have the Soap to make the connection.”

“Yeah,” John said, then did a double take. “Wait, what? You talking from personal experience there, Greg?”

Greg couldn’t keep the grin from his face.

John looked elated, then confused, then more confused. “What? I thought you were married? What the fuck happened in the last week?”

Greg laughed. “Angelica finally left me.”

John blinked. “Right. And you’re happy about that?”

“I am now that I got drunk, told the right person she’d left and they showed themselves as my Soulmate.”

John blinked again. “What the fuck are you talking about, Greg?”

Greg was enjoying this. As he opened his mouth, though, the door opened and Mycroft stepped into the pub.

“Speaking of…” Greg muttered, standing to walk over to Mycroft. He couldn’t have stayed away, the pull towards that three piece suit and the man within was too strong. When he was close enough, Greg stopped, breathing in. The scent still thrilled him, that first breath permeating his body like fire and ice and life itself.

He opened his eyes to see Mycroft standing patiently in front of him, smiling gently. Greg was making a conscious effort to let Mycroft see the effect he was having on him. He wanted Mycroft to understand how happy he was making the silver haired copper just by being himself.

“Hi,” Mycroft said softly.

“Hi,” Greg replied, stepping forward and placing a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. They hadn’t really defined their relationship, but there was definitely some romance there, and a lot of physical reassurance – fingers entwining, hands on the smalls of backs. Greg harboured quiet hopes that there might be more in the future, but right now things were pretty damned good. He didn’t want to push anything.

“I can see you’ve told John at least some of the events of the last week,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg turned to look at his friend.

John had just enough ‘what the hell’ on his face for a Soulmate reveal, Greg mused as he lead Mycroft over, their fingers intertwining as naturally as walking.

“Good afternoon, John,” Mycroft said.

“Hi, Mycroft,” John said, still looking a bit bewildered. He looked back and forward between the two of them. He pointed a finger at Greg and said firmly, “I still have questions.”

Greg and Mycroft grinned, looking at each other affectionately.

“Is that how I look?” John asked, and Greg chuckled.

“Dunno, have to see you with Sherlock,” Greg told him. “But you had a pretty good dopey happy face going before.”

John had pulled his phone out and sent a quick text. When Greg raised an eyebrow, John said, “He’ll be here in under ten minutes. I told him you had an unsolvable case.”

Greg groaned. “Thanks for that.”

“Anytime, brother-in-law,” John retorted.

Greg felt startled, then laughed at he realised that they were, kind of, brothers-in-law.

“In that case this round is on me,” Greg said. He spied Molly coming in, and waved her over, along with the tall, gorgeous brunette she was with. “We might need to get a table.”

Mycroft went to find the table while Greg ordered drinks, and they all ended up in the same place with drinks all around, eventually.

Greg had just been introduced to Harry when Sherlock appeared, sweeping in like he owned the place, as usual. He approached their table, eyes locked on John, dropping a kiss on his head before speaking to Greg.

“Gavin,” he said, ignoring the rest of the group, “what’s this case?”

“For the final time, _Sherwin_ , it’s Greg,” Greg said evenly. Several snorts of laughter sounded around the table, which Sherlock ignored.

“Unimportant,” Sherlock waved the detail away.

“Is that any way to speak to your brother-in-law?” Greg replied mildly, watching avidly as the little colour drained out of Sherlock’s face.

“What?” he whispered. His gaze swept over the group, registering Mycroft for the first time. “Mycroft?”

“Indeed, brother. Allow me to also offer my congratulations on your own recently discovered Soulmate.”

It was beautiful, Greg thought, to watch Sherlock cast around for words and come up empty. It was unlikely it would happen often, so he savoured it, until John slid his hand into Sherlock’s and guided him into a seat.

“Actually, we’re all kind of related here,” Molly said, looking around. “John and Harry, of course, and Harry and I are, well…” she blushed and they both held up their left hands, showing off sparkling engagement rings. A chorus of cheers rose from their table, huge smiles on both Molly and Harry as they gazed at each other. “So I’m kind of John’s sister-in-law,” she continued. “And then John and Sherlock, and Greg and Mycroft.” She beamed around at everyone again. “We’re all brothers and sisters, really.”

Greg looked around at the group, at each face. John looked surprised and happy at the idea. His gaze flicked back to his Soulmate every few minutes, as did the tall detective’s; it was clear how connected they felt.

Sherlock’s face expressed his surprise and a little discomfort at such a large group declaring themselves his family. John would rub the rough corners off him, and he’d end up the one who complained about family gatherings but arranged the best presents, Greg thought.

Harry wasn’t surprised; Greg guessed that she and Molly had already discussed the possibility of sibling-esque relationships that could eventuate, depending on how the relationships played out. It was happiness and affection, mostly directed at Molly, that Greg saw radiating from Harry. She did cast the occasional glance at her brother, and Greg privately hoped that the true brother and sister could mend their relationship now that each was so content.

Glancing sideways, Greg realised Mycroft was looking at him.

“Watching me?” Greg murmured, his hand finding its way onto Mycroft’s knee.

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured. “Watching you watching everyone, actually.”

“True,” Greg replied. “Interesting reactions to Molly’s statement.”

“Mmmm,” Mycroft hummed. “I suppose this means birthday dinners.”

“Pizza and beer, I’m guessing,” Greg supplied, grinning at Mycroft’s distaste.

“Birthday celebrant chooses, I’d suggest,” Mycroft countered, and Greg had to agree. They were close now, and it was the most natural thing in the world for Greg to lean forward the extra five centimetres and press his lips to Mycroft’s. Chaste and warm, it felt right.

Greg hummed in contentment then leaned back, looking into the grey eyes that held such affection for him.

Greg glanced over at John, who was sharing a similarly intimate moment with Sherlock.

“Hang on,” Greg murmured, digging out his phone and taking a photo of John and Sherlock – hands intertwined, John’s palm against Sherlock’s cheek, foreheads touching and matching dreamy smiles. He sent it to John and Sherlock, both of whom jumped a little at the message tones from their respective phones.

Sherlock checked his right away; the pink blush spread up his cheeks like wildfire.

John snatched the phone out of his hands and looked at the image before glaring at Greg.

“What?” Greg asked innocently. “You wanted to know if you looked as nauseatingly happy as the rest of us do.” He gestured to the phone. “And now you know, you do.”

Molly, Harry and Mycroft broke into laughter at the expression on both John and Sherlock’s face at that. They settled into conversation then, seats shifting and swapping as people went to the bar or the loo; at some point Molly ended up next to Greg. Harry had gone to the bar, while Mycroft and John were talking about something.

“I’m so glad you and Mycroft found each other,” Molly said quietly to him.

Greg turned, her sincere smile brightening her face. “Me too,” he replied.

“Now you’re part of our family too,” Molly said with satisfaction.

“Thanks, Molly,” Greg replied. He felt a rush of affection for the lovely woman who was now, in a weird way, his sister.

“I’ve never seen you so happy,” Molly added. “Not even with your wife.”

“I’ve never been so happy,” Greg told her truthfully, noticed how she’d tensed after mentioning his now ex-wife. “Certainly not with my wife.” He smiled reassuringly, and she relaxed. “You look pretty ecstatic yourself.”

He watched as her gaze moved to Harry, who was negotiating the tables towards the bar. Harry’s face lit up when she saw Molly looking at her, and a cheeky expression came over her face as she winked at her fiancé. Molly blushed.

A few minutes later, Harry arrived at the table, a tray of shots in hand.

“This one’s mine,” she said, claiming one, distributing the others to some minor good-natured protesting.

“She’s recovering,” Molly explained, “It’s apple juice.”

Greg nodded, making a mental note to tell John, who was frowning at his sister. Greg caught Sherlock’s eye, then made the right combination of head jerks and facial expressions to say, ‘look at John. That’s not booze. Tell him.’

Sherlock did as he was told, reading John’s expression. The bloom of understanding was still new to Greg – when had Sherlock ever allowed his emotions to show across his face? Sherlock bent and whispered in John’s ear, and John relaxed, shooting a grateful look to Greg.

“A toast!” Harry cried, raising her glass. The others followed suit, looking around at each other with a range of expressions, from fondness to exasperation, resignation to quiet contentment. “To Soap!”

The group chorused, “To Soap!” enthusiastically before disintegrating into giggles and chatter for the most part.

+++

Two men, brothers since birth, caught each other’s eye.

 _Well, brother? Are you happy?_ One asked silently.

 _Indeed, brother,_  The other replied.

Both gave a small smile before turning to their Soulmate, content.

 

Two men, brothers-in-law, caught each other’s eye.

 _Well? Can you believe it?_ One asked silently.

 _Bloody hell,_  The other replied.

Both gave a broad grin before turning to their Soulmate, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everybody for your support of this idea. Initially a one shot, it grew and grew, and now we are here. <3


End file.
